


Pierre, The Succubus, Her Demon, and His Angel

by MrSpears



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Genre: Dom/sub, F/M, Forced Orgasm, Group Sex, M/M, Multi, Spanking, anatole and pierre, multiple orgasm, request
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-31 14:23:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15121340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrSpears/pseuds/MrSpears
Summary: Helene finally invites her virginal husband to her bed - along with her two more consistent lovers, Dolokhov and Anatole. They will give him everything he could hope to beg for - will he be able to bear it?





	Pierre, The Succubus, Her Demon, and His Angel

Candles burned low, creating pools of wax around their thick brass bases. The dim yellow rings of light they cast were barely enough to give the bedroom any sort of color. The lavish red and gold bedspread suffered for it, but Helene’s skin did not. She glowed underneath even the barest of light. Her impeccable skin draped in soft, sheer satin that slipped down around her shoulders, flaunting the decadent curves and the sinful sweep of her collarbone – baring her elegant throat and the pearls strung around it. The pearls had been an engagement gift – from Dolokhov, whose brazen overtures had been seeping through the fabric of Pierre’s marriage since the beginning. An ugly, oily stain. 

Pierre had never once been granted allowance to the wedding bed. The night their union was to be consummated, she had shut the door in his face. She suffered no loneliness, if her moans and sharp pleasured cries were anything to be considered. He heard them well enough through the walls – finding sanctity only in his office, where if he shut the door and drank enough wine he could drown out almost anything. 

Not the humiliation. Never…

But now he stood in the frame. The door that had been closed to him was wide open – as were the windows, which let in a sluggish, cold breeze which made the candles flicker dangerously. He shivered, not daring to lift his eyes – considering himself a coward for not being able to meet hers. But he was not ready to look her in the impish face and have those sparkling eyes and that bitter, saucy mouth turn him out once more before falling into the arms of her lover. 

Not that he didn’t understand. Fedya was as much a man to be reckoned with in the bedchamber as he was in society. Pierre had no first-hand experience but he had heard such tales…

“Pierre,” Helene’s voice wasn’t gentle, but it was not unkind. “You don’t have to be afraid.” 

Her words were belittling. If he valued himself, he would have left. But he raised his eyes, desperation overriding his pride. If he could do anything to avoid spending another night alone in his study, with his near-empty bottles of wine and his worn books… 

And Fedya was on the bed, laid out on his side with one knee bent, propped up on one arm like a masterful painting. His dark facial hair rimmed his hard line of a mouth, where a smile lurked in the corner – not quite a smirk, maybe a little too genuine for such. His white shirt was open all the way down to his belly and displayed more dark, curly hair that decorated his chest. Pierre had seen his friend naked before, but never in this way, never under this sort of lighting. Dolokhov was more intimidating barely clothed than he was with a gun on his hip. 

Pierre’s heart dropped into his stomach with dizzying speed. His head reeling, he clutched the door frame as if it was the only thing in the world to keep him from falling to his knees. What was this, then? Some sort of cruel trick? Some cheap form of entertainment, was he to be made part of their foreplay and sent out? Fedya had no qualms as to humiliating him in public, but now in his own bed as well…something like anger was bubbling up, a fine cocktail with his embarrassment. The heat that flushed his face could have been as much rage as wine, he had plenty of both making his blood rush. 

“Petruska,” the diminutive of his name was insulting, considering the feminine connotations, but also affectionate. “Come forward, we cannot do anything with you standing in the door like a great big tree.” 

He wanted to grab Dolokhov by the neck and throw him out the window with hell on his heels. 

He stepped meekly into the room. 

“About time for that, eh?” As soon as those dulcet tones fell onto his ears, Pierre wanted to die. He did not even have to turn and glance behind him – he would know Anatole’s voice in a whimper. A moan. He would know him without speaking by the feel of his hands and by scent, alone. “I thought you were never going to let me through.” 

“I invited our Anatole to play as well,” Helene said with a decided wickedness. “After deciding there should be something for you.”

“What would you have with me?” His own voice in comparison to the rich, throaty succubus sounds rough, as crackled as the pages of his journals. How he misses them now that he is being thrown so far out of his element. And his words sound submissive, sexual, but so lacking in intent for either that they come out as clumsy and virginal. Both of which, he is. 

Helene smiles, and she rolls the thought around on her tongue. Like she’s playing with candy in her mouth – pushing it from cheek to cheek, letting it wet her lips. Seductive. Pink. Her coy tongue and gleaming eyes working in tandem to torment him. “We would have you watch.” 

His heart sank further. His Helene, his Anatole, he a spectator to Dolokhov making them both…

“And participate.” 

Dizzy, again. Her words delivering such a shock that it was akin to a physical blow against his chest. Winded, he felt like an idiot – but the blood was pounding in his ears and he could not begin to decide how he felt. To have the chance to please them both, when he had never once touched either a woman or a man…

“I am not,” he shook his head, trying to back out, but he ended up colliding with Anatole. “I am not what you…” 

Anatole braced his shoulders, laughing and giving him a playful shove. “Afraid you can’t perform, old man?” He winked and kissed Pierre’s bearded cheek, trailing one light fingers down his friend’s jawline, ending with a tug on his chin. “Don’t worry. I will see that you…” 

Dolokhov snapped his fingers and Anatole went rigid. He dropped his hands from Pierre’s shoulders and flashed his dom a coquettish grin, dark lashes sinking down halfway to eclipse bright blue irises. “Perhaps that isn’t my call to make.” A heady purr rattled his throat. 

Dolokhov rolled his eyes and sat up at last, trailing a finger down the sensual curve of Helene’s perfect bare shoulder and dropping a kiss onto the flawless skin. She sighed at the touch of his lips and closed her eyes as he put his hands on her arms, drawing her closer to his body, gaze locking with Pierre’s as his kisses trailed up her shoulder and towards her neck – his tongue flickering boldly to slide over her throat, nipping at her throbbing jugular. Helene swallowed a moan and shivered. Pierre could already feel his need starting to build between his legs and he wished, he wished to God he could control it. 

“Come,” a single word. Dolokhov snapped his fingers again and like he was being pulled on a string, Pierre felt compelled to obey. He walked (stumbled) towards the bed, reaching out to grip the post. He looked to Fedya for further instruction, and his friend gestured for him to get on the bed. He had not been told to divest of his clothing, so he didn’t. He sat on the edge, feeling it sink with his weight. Helene moved out of the way, closer to Dolokhov, who allowed his hand to wander over the swell of her thigh, diving down between her legs to push his fingers close through the fabric of her dress. She moaned again and reached up to grip his arm tight. Fedya allowed the lascivious smile to take over his firm mouth. 

“Lay down,” he said. Pierre did as he was told. He moved to lay on his back, kicking off his shoes in the process. Anatole jumped onto the edge of the bed, as lithely as a sprite, and his fingers found the buttons of Pierre’s vest. Pierre’s thick heart was hammering against his big chest as Anatole’s white, slim fingers worked to undo every button; each as broad and round as rubles. Once the buttons were undone, Anatole spread the vest open with his hands, laying Pierre’s chest bare once item of clothing at a time. With particular artistry he set in on the shirt underneath, making even quicker work of it until his hands were resting against Pierre’s bare chest. Pierre was instantly ashamed of his dark hair, not so regal as Dolokhov’s, and his soft flesh – but Anatole’s hands were thorough in their worship, exploring every inch under Fedya’s careful direction. His playful mouth made its way down the expanse of Pierre’s bare skin, his devil-hot tongue finding the man’s nipples, flickering over them – drawing them into his mouth and sucking, hard, until they stood erect on their own. 

“Be careful with him,” Helene cooed. “We don’t wish for him to release before he is given permission.” 

“Especially considering I haven’t even gotten that far.” Anatole reached between Pierre’s legs, a cupped hand rubbing his cock cruelly through the fabric of his trousers. Pierre groaned – half-erect already and aching with need. Anatole’s hand was torment. 

“If we are too gentle, he may not release at all.” Dolokhov was no believer in mercy. 

“P-Please…” Pierre was not even certain what he was trying to ask for. To beg for. He did not get the chance. Dolokhov grabbed Anatole by the hair and pulled him back – earning him an indignant yelp from the blonde. 

“Do not speak,” Fedya said, more of a hiss. “Not until you are told. Anatole, the blindfold.” 

Anatole did as he was told. He reached underneath one of the pillows in a very planned motion and withdrew a long strip of black satin. Pierre’s mouth went dry, and he could not find it within him to protest. Not even as Anatole folded the satin in half and then leaned over his body, pressing a kiss to his lips as he knotted the fabric around Pierre’s eyes.

Anatole’s kiss was chased with vodka, it laced his tongue and made Pierre’s mouth burn. His hips bucked, almost involuntarily, with the pressure. Anatole allowed the kiss to linger, his tongue flickering in and out of Pierre’s mouth until he felt the man’s chest begin to heave underneath him. Then he pulled away, fingers dancing over the man’s cheek before vanishing altogether. Now that his sight was gone, every sensation was heightened. And as he felt fingers (Helene’s? Dainty and experienced. God, too experienced) curl around his waistband and begin to pull his trousers down his thighs, he was all too aware of his cock standing upright – springing to life and begging for attention, throbbing with need until it wavered. 

Helene’s fingertips found the head of his cock, her soft, condescending coo tormenting him as she traced the head – collecting enough of his pre-cum so that her touch had an easy glide. 

“How cute,” she whispered. He knew he was sizable, or at least he had always considered himself so (others had told him such, those who had seen, but never in an intimate setting). He was beginning to doubt himself, or at least…perhaps he did not measure up, not next to Dolokhov. Despite this insecurity, he did not lose an inch. His need only increased, the pressure building at the base and making him whimper. 

“If I allow my Helene to straddle you, you will not see release so quickly.” His Helene. Dolokhov’s arrogance drenched every insulting word. “Are you certain that is what you want, Bezukhov?” 

Pierre nodded – the motion so vigorous he felt like the blindfold might slip off. He couldn’t even imagine the punishment for that. He started to open his mouth – but then he shut it again, remembering he had not been permitted to speak. 

The fabric of Helene’s sheer nightgown brushed against his legs as she pulled it up. Pierre felt the heat of her thighs as she lowered herself to hover over him, a knee planted on either side of his hips, digging into the bed. She rocked back and forth a little, humming to herself as she lowered herself even further. His cock was desperately seeking her warmth. He did not dare roll his hips to meet hers, afraid he would look like a fool also – for even trying. She sank down until she rested against the head of his cock and he could feel her warm, glistening cunt – aroused, but not from him. He remembered Dolokhov’s fingers pressed to her. Her lover had to work her up before she could even bear to touch her husband. 

She pushed herself down, just a little further, and Pierre’s back arched. His lips parted and all he could manage was a soft gasp as she sank lower, lower – until her hips were grinding against his, and her planted knees were rocking her back and forth. Her hips swiveled around his cock, the grace of a dancer, the expertise of a whore. His hands came up to grip her thighs and he clenched them – as tightly as he dared, afraid to leave any mark on perfection he didn’t own. She was so soft, yet her muscles were so taut – she was in control, every motion. He wanted to take hold of her, pull her down, get on top and drive himself deeper – but he knew if he even made such a motion he would be banished from her bed. Banished from this bliss. Banished from the hot and tight, wet glory that swallowed his cock in its entirety and sought to wring his orgasm from the very root…

And in a moment it was lost. She slipped off his cock with as much ease and nonchalance as she slipped on. He moaned a protest – and a breeze swept across his naked thighs to add insult to injury. She only laughed and smacked him between the legs, a hearty swat against his balls and he base of his cock that made everything jolt. Lightning that tightened his abdomen until it hurt. 

“As if I would allow you to release inside of me,” she taunted. He could not see, but he knew Dolokhov’s hands were on her again. He could hear her whimper. “I give that privilege to one man alone.” 

“One?” Anatole sounded insulted, but it was largely pretense. Everyone in the room knew that Anatole had little competition in Dolokhov when it came to his sister. 

“One man who controls it all,” Dolokhov sneered. “Petruska, roll over.” 

Pierre hesitated only a second before obeying, not certain if he heard Dolokhov correctly at first. He rolled over until he was on his stomach, his bare ass in the air leaving him feeling more exposed than before – his cock pressed against the expensive linen sheets. He fought the urge to rub against them, to relieve the ache. He would be punished for that, and a fool for giving in. The next hands to land on his body were Fedya’s. Fingers as cold and steely as gun metal spread his cheeks apart, kneading for a moment, each tip pressing into the flesh and leaving behind an indelible mark – proof that he was there. He pushed his knees between Pierre’s thighs and spread them apart, wider and wider until he felt them start to burn. Fedya got as close as he could, and one of his fingers dove down where Pierre was spread for him. One fingertip stroked Pierre’s tight hole, which was, until this moment – unfamiliar with any form of caress. A muscle jumped, and his shoulders twitched. Dolokhov brought a hand down onto his thigh, a crisp slap. 

“Are you going to make this easy for me?” He chastised. Pierre nodded, eager to please. Even if he could barely hear Dolokhov over the sound of his own roaring blood. 

Another slap. That one was just for fun. Dolokhov paused, considering what to do next, and Pierre waited in heavy silence. Then the blows came – one after the other in a merciless hail – Pierre’s ass was warm and no doubt starting to redden underneath the ferocity of Fedya’s relentless hand. Pierre bit the inside of his cheek, fighting against a moan, fighting against a cry – he knew if he resisted, Fedya would just beat him harder. And then it would never end. It would never end and he would never see release….

More blows. They were hurting more, now, that they were coming down on already stricken skin. He was afraid he was going to bruise. He was afraid his skin would split. He wouldn’t be able to sit comfortably for a week…

He mustn’t call out…mustn’t cry for pity, mustn’t speak…

“Fedya!” His whole body trembled violently when he heard the words – what sounded like a distant, pathetic voice not his own – tear from his wretched throat. “Fedya…” he couldn’t make it a plea. What little pride he had remaining was getting in the way and he could feel it rumbling in his chest, coming out as a growl. “I cannot…” 

He could take him in a fight. Could buck him off. Tackle him to the ground. He had brawled with him before. He could do it again and win. 

“Had enough?” Dolokhov knew when to quit, not interested in rousing the beast that resided deep within Pierre. The count was his plaything for tonight. He wasn’t going to push his luck (not too far, anyway). His fingers pressed up against Pierre’s hole again, subduing him once more. Pierre felt the rage settle back into his abdomen, remembering how much it hurt. How much he needed release. And Fedya’s hands were cruel. 

“Anatole,” Dolokhov spoke again. Anatole’s weight shifted, but Pierre had no idea as to what the exchange entailed until he felt Fedya’s fingers return – gliding, this time, coated in oil. They left again, pulling away after only a few moments, and were replaced by something bigger, hotter. The head of Dolokhov’s cock was pressed up against him and Pierre grabbed the sheets underneath him, clinging, bracing himself for what he knew he would never be ready for. What he never thought he would…

No warning. No gentility. Dolokhov shoved the head of his cock into Pierre and forced him to take the entire length. Pierre groaned loudly – fighting a cry as he took inch by tormenting inch. It burned, as he felt himself being stretched to accommodate the man’s girth. Dolokhov allowed his hips to rest against Pierre’s ass, rocking back and forth a little before beginning to draw back – again, only a little before slamming himself back inside. Pierre buried his face into a pillow, allowing himself to moan there as loud as he pleased. 

“Fedya,” Anatole’s voice was a soft little croon. “I want…” 

“Momentarily,” Dolokhov breathed, leaning over and gripping Pierre’s ass in his hands. He drew himself back again, slowly, until he was in danger of slipping out. Then he pushed himself back in, the same leisurely pace, and dragged his nails down the back of Pierre’s thighs. The man was sweating, and droplets were falling from his forehead onto the back of Pierre’s big, broad shoulders. He bucked his hips against Pierre’s ass, his hand squirming underneath the count, grasping hold of his aroused cock…

Pierre found himself pushing into Dolokhov’s hand, panting, eager for release. Between the pressure from his hand, countered by his hips, pinned by his cock…the count knew he didn’t stand a chance. Pierre pushed one of his own hands underneath and grabbed Dolokhov’s, applying just enough pressure in the right place…

That was all it took. That was really all it took…

“Release for me,” Dolokhov growled in his ear. “I will make you, if you do not willingly. I will wring it from you. I want you to cover my fingers with your shame…” 

Pierre gripped the sheets, pushed Fedya’s hand closer to him, and he….

The pressure built too high. It exploded. Pierre felt it all leave him in one rush and he felt himself spill everything onto Fedya’s steel fingers. Shame and guilt washed over him almost immediately, but not enough to chase away the satisfaction, the incredible divine ecstasy that he had never experienced at the hands of another…

And with one thrust, Dolokhov pulled out, his own will splashing onto Pierre’s thighs. The count closed his eyes and moaned, his whole body shivering, and he felt himself sinking into the mattress – hot, hot shame and a reminder of his submission…

“You are not done,” Dolokhov smacked his thigh. “Roll over.” 

Pierre shook his head. “I cannot…” 

“You will do it again. You will do it again, and again, until I say you are finished.” Fedya ripped the blindfold away and suddenly Pierre’s world was gold again. Gold and red and there was Anatole in all his naked splendor, straddling his waist but light as a feather, resting a cool hand against his hot cheek. 

“There now,” Anatole smiled softly. And his smile was a haven. Pierre brought his sticky hands up to rest them against Anatole’s face, as if he could cling to the Karagin, find solace in those blue eyes. He felt ashamed. He knew he sullied Anatole with his touch. But he could not help it… 

“Would you have me, too?” The golden deity with his impish smile leaned over and pressed his hands against Pierre’s shoulders, kissing his cheeks. “Will you do it again for me?” 

Pierre nodded, his hands moving down to press against Anatole’s back. Narrow shoulders, sweeping like wings. Angel wings. His angel. God. 

Anatole moved down Pierre’s hips, bare ass brushing against Pierre’s swollen, glistening, still half-erect cock. He rested against it, rocking his ass back and forth and cooing, gentle fingers fluttering over Pierre’s cheeks, burying into his hair, traveling down his shoulders – nails dragging lightly over his nipples. Pinching. Teasing. What a difference, God, what a difference.

Each golden touch was bringing him back around. Pierre’s cock was thick and erect again between his legs, rising to greet Anatole’s soft, eager body. Anatole had already prepared himself – his hole already slick, ready to accommodate. Or maybe Dolokhov had prepared it… Pierre tried not to think about it too hard. He took hold of Anatole’s hips and guided the boy down – the head of his cock pressed to Anatole’s divine body was a wholly different sensation from how it had been to have Helene. It shook him to the core to admit as much. Anatole moaned appreciatively, wriggling his hips and sinking down Pierre’s cock slowly. Pierre moaned and pushed his hips up to meet the nymph, and they were grinding their bodies against one another, Anatole riding him with oiled hips and a gentle, bracing hand. A sensation so divinely inspired that Pierre was nearly reduced to tears. 

More shame, more guilt – only because of how hard he was so soon after releasing, how he felt Anatole’s body deserved better than his cock, so deep and hard and needy inside of him. Anatole’s body worshipped him, hands and lips so beautifully placed. Everywhere they landed was a perfect choice. The prince leaned over and brushed his lips over Pierre’s ear, pressing his cool chest to Pierre’s big, heaving one. He traced his tongue over the shell of PIerre’s ear and whispered, “do you want to release inside of me?” 

Pierre nodded, swallowing hard. His hands were trembling, so he gripped Anatole’s thighs harder. Having already released once, he was on a hair-trigger for the second. It wouldn’t take much at all, it would not take very much….

Anatole moaned and rolled his hips again, sitting upright to bounce on Pierre’s cock. He rose and sank, rose and sank – undulating on Pierre’s length, thighs spread appreciatively – showy, flaunting his ability and his pleasure. It was as much a show for Dolokhov and Helene as it was for Pierre, but to Pierre, it was all for him. All for him, this beautiful boy…

“Release for me,” Anatole breathed – his voice pulled out on the strands of a moan. “Ooh, Pierre, give it all to me…” 

“Yes,” he didn’t care that he had not been told to speak. He didn’t care. “Yes, yes…” he was close. So close. And then there it was, he was…he felt himself release, again, but this time it was inside of Anatole. He filled the boy’s insides and for a moment, he was mortified, and he tried to pull out – hardly able to believe his own gall. But Anatole ground against his hips, insistent, purring approval as he took hold of his own blushing cock – slim and pale with a rose-pink tip. Stroking himself, he continued riding Pierre’s softening cock for those last few moments it took to bring himself to ecstasy – his cheeks flushing, blue eyes glassy in the candlelight as he bit his lip and whimpered, spilling onto his own hand and onto Pierre’s chest. 

Pleasure. There it was. True pleasure when proof of Anatole’s enjoyment dripped onto his chest. He felt so unworthy but the knowledge that he had brought Anatole to his peak made his chest nearly burst with joy. His head was spinning. In that moment, he could have conquered the world. Killed Napoleon. He could have done it all. 

Dolokhov made a sound, and Pierre looked over to see the irritated twist of his friend’s mouth. 

“Done with it, then,” Fedya turned to Helene, his hands on her shoulder as he pulled her close. “To bed, you and I go…Anatole, Pierre, goodnight.” 

“What?” Anatole sounded scandalized, pulling himself carefully off Pierre and settling down next to him. “Fedya, we cannot leave him cold…” 

“He can take care of himself, well enough.” Dolokhov said. And Pierre could feel something new, something like panic settling in his chest. To be turned out of bed. Away from warmth. Away from…Anatole…he could feel himself start to tremble, and he reached out – he wasn’t sure for what – Anatole’s hand found his, cool fingers and soft lips…gentle, reassuring kisses were his salvation. Easing some of the terror. The ache. 

“I will not leave him,” Anatole flashed back. “Amuse yourself next to us, for all we care – I know how quickly you will succumb to sleep after the fact. So have it done and rest. I am staying here with him.” 

Dolokhov blinked. A slow, lazy expression. He was not amused any longer. But throwing Pierre and Anatole both out of bed felt like more trouble than it was worth. He turned his head to Helene, who only shrugged – one shoulder going up in an expression that said she hardly cared what happened, so long a she came out sated.

“Let us go somewhere else, then.” Fedya sounded annoyed, but not enough to lash out. Anatole would be punished for his insolence later, for certain. He would be whipped until he could hardly stand. But that was for another night. “This does not amuse me any longer.” 

Helene didn’t say a word. She leaned over and kissed Anatole on the lips, then once more on the cheek as she pulled away – gathering up her nightgown by the fistfuls. She did not even acknowledge Pierre as she swept out of the room, a little gracelessly in the beginning – her legs and feet numb for their play. Dolokhov followed her at a faster, more purposeful pace. Throwing a final glare over his shoulder at Anatole before slamming the door shut. 

Once they were gone, Anatole let out a long sigh. He sank down into the bed and wrapped his arms around Pierre, kissing his cheek softly.

“There, there, Petya,” he whispered. “There, how do you feel?” 

Divine. Miserable. “I am not sure,” Pierre admitted.

Anatole nodded. “That is all right,” he soothed. “It is all right.” He pulled the covers up, swathing them both in red and gold. Pierre turned onto his side and pulled Anatole closer to him – afraid to crush him, wishing he could get any closer. Which would be physically impossible unless he opened up his chest and allowed Anatole to crawl inside. Which he would do, gladly, in a heartbeat. 

“Try to rest, Petya.” Anatole stroked his chest, his hair. Fingernails scratched his scalp underneath the dark, heavy curls. “You are safe now with me.” 

Kindness he had not expected. Kindness he did not deserve. He was going to weep, and he did not want Anatole to see. But he could hardly help it as the hot tears started rolling down his cheeks. 

He tried to turn away, but Anatole held him fast. Those cool, angelic fingers swept away the tears, and those dulcet rose petal lips kissed his glistening forehead. The gentle touch alleviated some of the pressure. He could breathe again, finally. 

Sleep was coming fast. Darkness was pulling on the corners of his vision. 

“Thank you,” Pierre muttered, pulling Anatole close to him again as he felt his body start to abandon his wishes, sleep pulling him in as exhaustion staked its claim. “Thank you…” 

“Sleep, Petya. Sleep.”

**Author's Note:**

> I know it isn't perfect, I'm new to Russians. But I had so much fun writing this.


End file.
